#the fic is percolating

[cerayanay]

Wash and Carolina are sooo funny imagine that guy from your first job that was kinda lame and bad at his job and everyone kinda treated like the little brother. The cashier that was bad with customers and forgot how to use the register. The busboy at a 3 star restaurant that broke glasses every night. The fresh graduate at your office job who lied about using excel and is honestly just a personality hire.

Then some drama happens and everyone quits and you kinda forgot about him in all the chaos. 10 years later you find out he was there til the company went under it traumatically changed him. Like you don’t see the light in his eyes. The shit he went through doesn’t even look good on his resume. They didn’t even pay overtime.

You find this out because he started hanging out with your little brother and his friends. They think he’s cool. But you remember when he asked if a 401k is $400,000 saved for retirement

[reineydraws]

mishanks sketch dump bc ive been doodling them to de-stress or when i need a break from other pieces lately ✨️

[muffinlance]

Next Dark Night in Ba Sing Se part! Is! Fully outlined!

...And so is the majority of series in lesser detail because oops my hand slipped.

[oliveroctavius]

I'm realizing it's popularly accepted that ATSV Hobie is a gadgeteer genius who made those replacement portal-watches himself, but I've been running on comicsverse lore...

...and assumed that Riri of his home dimension did the actual building from the materials he's been swiping, and the "do you think that did anything important?" line was not, in fact, a joke on his part

[theinfinitedivides]

going to freak out about my bestie Daniel again by talking about headcanons but to me he's like. not only half-Armenian half-Irish (yes Molloy is an Irish surname but Eric is Armenian people. so what do we do we make the sensible choice and split the difference. put that shit in your fics my rep is lacking) but also Jewish. not necessarily practicing but yk. it's called his mother grows up in the US in a household where her father's Armenian Orthodox and her mother's Jewish and takes a little bit of both but mainly from her mother and then she meets his raised-Catholic nebulously-agnostic Irish-American father and gives shit a shot. and here's Molloy in the midst of it all, born to wreck marriages fail at parenting his own kids and get his shit absolutely fucking rocked by two vamps in the 70s

[psiroller]

gaymers preview

i blacked out and what is this

au where everyone is playing an mmo that simulates dungeon meshi world but theyre all regular dudes named like larry and charles and stuff. the worst thing they do in this excerpt is cuss. im going to go finish chapter 4 but a friend needed a juicy carrot dangled in their face to finish their job applications. i am the picture of benevolence

cw: excessive gamer references and lingo

“Sorry, guys,” Laios mumbled into his crisp, high-fidelity mic. “I drew aggro early again.”

Chilchuck’s sigh came out in a raspy crackle. “We’re four rooms behind you, moron, what am I supposed to do about that?”

“I’m kiting the dragon back to you,” said Laios, hammering at his mechanical keyboard to try to get his speed buff cast while navigating the winding dungeon instance.

“You’re what!?” Chilchuck’s busted old Logitech headset clipped due to the volume. Laios’ hand slipped and he parried needlessly, locking him in place for a fraction of a second, the overlapping footfalls of the red dragon growing louder behind him. His ears were sweating under the cuffs.

“Laios, take the path on your right and keep running,” Marcille instructed, exasperated. “This is why you stay with the party, okay?”

“But we were talking for so long, I got bored,” Laios whined.

“Then why are you on the RP server, dumbass!?” Chilchuck hissed. Laios misfired a spell, alerting the party to his presence. The spatial audio on his headphones alerted him to his party moving up the tunnel perpendicular to the path he’d been assigned, chasing after the dragon.

“Because this is the one Marcille is on, Falin,” Laios jeered. Falin sent a winking smiley in party chat.

“Don’t deflect, Laios. You’re in deep shit if you die,” Chilchuck growled. Laios’ brainwaves flatlined as the dragon caught up to him, dousing him in crustily-textured flames that obscured his character. He kept aimlessly running, finding himself sliding along a wall once the flames cleared. The dragon wound up for its deadly right-armed strike and chunked a hefty amount of his health bar. Just as he regained his bearings, the dragon galloped and slid into a tail swipe that he managed to parry—it bought him just enough time for Falin to heal him, a glittery golden glow enveloping the screen. Laios slumped into the headrest of his gaming chair and breathed.

“Oh my God, thank you thank you thank you thank you—”

Another smiley, this one without the teasing wink. One day they’d talk her into turning her mic on, but she always worried about breathing too loudly. The dragon spun in the opposite direction for its follow-up attack, staggering Laios despite another successful parry. Chilchuck’s scrawny rouge dashed in after everyone else, buffed to the nines and firing poison arrows from the mouth of the arena. Marcille hammered the dragon with a barrage of fireballs, so overleveled for this dungeon that the dragon’s fire resistance was negated by the sheer amount of damage. A bunch of pre-cooked meals appeared in his inventory, dropped onto him by Senshi. The dragon turned its ire upon the dwarf, being within melee range, and hit him with a jet of flame—his health dropped by fractions of fractions. He ate another tail swipe without moving, his stout character waving at Laios and dancing a delightful high-kicking jig. The dragon tried in vein to get him below 75% of his max health before it all healed back in a few seconds. He continued tanking all the attacks, ramming the dragon with his shield every time the cooldown reset, and Laios hopped back into the fray. They alternated taking heavy swings, keeping the dragon stunlocked and helpless as Marcille charged her nuke spell, the one that made Chilchuck’s shitty Gateway lag for minutes on end.

Ka-choom. The dragon had collapsed before the animation was completed, the particle effects whipping away to reveal the corpse, glittering to indicate there was loot to be claimed. Laios cheered along with the bombastic fanfare; he heard Falin whoop from her room next door.

“Well done, newbies,” Senshi laughed. His beard brushed against his microphone, a strangely comforting sound. “You had me worried for a second!”

“Why? It’s just a game,” Laios said, clueless. “I’d just respawn, wouldn’t I?”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t think our characters like dying very much,” Chilchuck said flatly. He’d dropped character, knowing that the night was drawing to a close.

“That, and it’s a huge hassle to run all the way from the start of the instance to come get your corpse,” Marcille huffed. “We’d have to wait for you to come back so you wouldn’t miss experience or loot… and Senshi has to log off in thirty minutes.”

“Gotta prep for the breakfast rush,” he said with grim resignation.

Laios briefly tabbed out to check his system clock. “At two in the morning?”

“Three here, son. I got to get the croissants rolled before five so they’re in the oven by five thirty, or the kids who come here to mooch off my wifi will buy something more than the cheapest coffee I have.”

“Oh.” Laios scratched his cheek. “Well, uh, have a good day at work?”

Senshi laughed, raspy and warm. “Someone’s never worked food service. Take care, everyone.” He accepted his share of the loot, giving away anything that couldn’t be crafted into a meal, and blinked out of the instance. When they emerged from the dungeon, he was long gone.

“I think I’m calling it here, too,” said Marcille. “Great work, you two. Until our next adventure!”

Her character bowed, and she too faded away.

I think this is a good stopping point, Falin typed. Laios smirked. “Oh yeah, I bet.”

>:( Don’t stay up too late, big brother! You have an exam in the morning.

Laios rolled his eyes, but he typed the emote shortcut to wave her off. Falin logged out. All that remained of his guild at this ungodly hour was Chilchuck, his character sat on the ground, likely checking the stats on the loot he’d acquired. He didn’t back out of the call; Laios could hear a long, whistling inhale, a holding of breath, and a satisfied exhale. He’d already lit up his post-raid cigarette.

“Well, uh, sorry for that,” Laios laughed. His chair squeaked as he shifted around in it. “I’m used to games where you can just run in and start pummeling the bad guys.”

Another long inhale. “What kind of games do you play? Call of Duty?”

“Ew, no,” Laios said, nose wrinkled. “I like Monster Hunter.”

Chilchuck snorted.

“What? Not good enough for you?”

“Can’t say it’s my kind of game, no,” Chilchuck said. There was a hint of a smile in his voice. “I know a girl that plays it. She loves it. But I guess I like more of a storyline in mine.”

“Ooh. Do you play JRPGs? Final Fantasy?”

Chilchuck barked out a laugh. “Final Fantasy was never my style either. I guess I prefer those old ones based on Dungeons and Dragons. That’s why I gravitated to this game.”

Laios sat his character down next to Chilchuck, loathe to log off but too tired to tackle his solo quests.

“Stuff like Divinity and Baldur’s Gate, then?”

“Yeah, Baldur’s Gate, that’s the one.” Chilchuck sounded a little brighter on the line. “So you’ve got some taste, eh?”

“Never played it.”

“Ah.” Chilchuck took another drag. “Elder Scrolls?”

“I played Skyrim,” Laios said. Chilchuck sniffed.

“Of course,” he grumbled. “Morrowind? Oblivion?”

“I always wanted Oblivion, but my mom wouldn’t let me buy it. Witchcraft.”

“That’s a shame,” Chilchuck hummed. “It’s good. A bitch to get running on modern machines, but I think it holds up.”

“How long have you been gaming?” Laios asked.

“Since the  late eighties, early nineties.” Laios gasped, and Chilchuck laughed it off. The sound made Laios buzz. “Yeah, yeah, I’m old, get it out of your system.”

“That’s so cool! You’re into retro stuff?”

“I guess that’s what the stuff I grew up with counts as now,” Chilchuck sighed. “I heard someone call Aerosmith an ‘oldie’ and almost had a cardiac event.”

“You are old, then.”

“Yep. But I also got to play Fallout when it first came out. That ending was nuts. I’m glad I didn’t get spoiled for it.”

“The old, isometric Fallout games? You like those? I like Fallout.”

“Yeah. I’m guessing you played Fallout 3?”

“Shooting people’s heads off in VATS is fun,” Laios said giddily.

“Sure it is,” Chilchuck drawled, and Laios had the sinking feeling he’d given the wrong answer. “New Vegas?”

“I was never into cowboys,” Laios admitted. “Never tried it.”

Chilchuck clicked his tongue. “God. I got some things to teach you.”

Laios sat ramrod straight in his chair.

“I’d—I’d like that,” he sputtered, before he could second-guess it. There was a long pause as Chilchuck polished off the last of his cigarette, a distorted shuffling sound as he moved to stamp out the butt.

“Yeah?” Chilchuck’s voice was low and warm, the hiss of his terrible mic like the soft noise of a record player. “I guess I could dig around in my boxes and rip a few CDs for you. For the sake of education.”

Laios was no stranger to wrestling with his rig to play older games. He had a PSX emulator for Monster Rancher that he’d managed to get to read discs properly, and some old PC simulator games that they just didn’t make anymore. Yet still:

“Could you—help me set them up? On call? Sometime?”

“I don’t see why not,” Chilchuck said. “I got nothing better to do.”

[jamtartandsunshine]

It starts small, inconsequential really. But Roy, he knows the signs, this isn't his first rodeo, as Ted would say. That thought makes him curse beneath his breath. Sounds like something fucking Lasso would say. It makes Roy's blood boil a little. He hates that the fucking cowboy coach has gotten into his head. But the point is, Roy notices. It's small but its there. Roy notices the way Jamie tips back the protein shaker, as he stands in the locker room laughing with the boys, but the liquid inside doesn't actually seem to go down. He notices the way Jamie's hands sometimes tremble as he picks up his water bottle in the gym. Having pushed himself harder then any of the rest of them. He notices the way Jamie jots down notes in a little pocket notebook at lunch. Roy doesn't see what's in it, but he'd bet his championship trophy its that stats of whatever Jamie's eating at lunch. Its not new. Everyone has macros to track, protein goals to reach. Carefully controlled carb intakes, but there's a darkness to Jamie's eyes as he scribbles hastily in his little notebook. Roy knows that look, and a part of him wants to look away, pretend he didn't see it, pretend he doesn't know the signs for what they are. He looks around the room, everyone is eating and laughing, they don't see what Roy is seeing. Most of them barely even spare Jamie a glance. Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck it. It has to be Roy, it can't be anyone fucking else.

[werewolfsmile]

Fam, your Were-wolf Eliot head canon post came up in my queue for reblog and I re-read it and gotta ask,

Does Lieutenant Bonanno know? And if so how did he react?

Tara was with them long enough to find out, how did she react to "Sparky"?

(Also I am majorly inspired by the image of Quinn just showing up when he's in town for a wolfy play date (and yes both Eliot and Quinn have threatened Hardison not to call it that, Parker gets a pass calling it that cause she's Parker and she'll call it that anyway threat or no threat) and I was wondering if you'd be okay with me trying to write that scene and tagging you when it's done?)

-- @scotchiegirl

Ahh thanks so much for asking!! You've made my brain start thinking about this fic and headcanons all over again!!

Bonanno finds out during the events of The Boys' Night Out Job. After all the other crazy stuff he has to deal with from Nate Ford & Friends, he just throws his hands up and says, 'of course you are. of course werewolves are real. i should'a known.' and goes about his life. But every time they play cards, he squints at Eliot and warns him against using his enhanced abilities to win.

"No funny wolf business, y'hear? We try to keep it a clean game." Eliot just blinks at him. "I don't have x-ray vision, dammit!"

Tara figured it out before the rest of the team did but she never said anything about it, knowing that he was keeping something like that secret for a reason. But when Sophie calls up to rant about something Eliot's done (after the team's found out), Tara just laughs and says something along the lines of "classic Sparky". Sophie is like, wait, you know??? And Tara's like, oh you know now too?? Finally!!! And then they gossip about Eliot and werewolves and all the weird stuff they've encountered on grifts. Because, really, finding out Eliot Spencer is a werewolf is one of the least-weird things to happen in Tara's life.

WOLFY PLAY DATE OH MY GOSH YES THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT IS!!! Ahhh you may absolutely write the scene, I would be honoured! Though fair warning that I have plans to include it in my fic of this whole AU, The Full Moon Job. And if I read your version of it before I write my own, I may be influenced by what you write. So as long as that doesn't bother you, have at it!

(shameless link of my fic included for anyone who might be interested)

[tethered-heartstrings]

i am not on any other social medias besides tumblr, but a mutual showed me a screenshot of someone on tiktok asking for hannibal fic recs and someone replied not with just one of my fics but recommended all of my work and i am at a loss for words and trying not to melt into a slobbering pile of goo. whoever you are, THANK YOU SO MUCH <333 AHHH

[divineatrophy]

i finally caught up on ur armand is alice fic and uhhhh imma need some full on original fiction from you bc i’m obsessed with ur writing and characterization and dialogue and and and…….

ahhh thank you that's so sweet!!! <3 honestly a high compliment!!

this was very funny to read because I was already considering linking it in the last chapter of memory into myth anyway because hey we gotta market however we can in this day and age but I do have a book for tragedy enjoyers coming out! in february!

(these two are already out but they're a VERY DIFFERENT vibe I have to confess I mainly write YA comedy atm)

[thebluestbluewords]

is the worldbuilding in the room with us now?

"My sister is trying to court the little Tremaine." Freddie grumbles,rolling her eyes. And also her other eyes. All of the googly eyes she's got glued to her purse, and the embroidered ones on her coat all roll in sync with each other. The overall effect is very Isle chic. It's almost comforting. 

"If it helps at all, they're being very cute about it," Evie says, carefully maintaining her tone of absolute innocence. She certainly hasn't been encouraging Dizzy's advances, no siree. Freddie doesn't need to know about the cobweb coat that's hanging above Dizzy's table in the workshop right now. Evie's only been helping a little bit with the bedazzling. "I think they're sweet together." 

Freddie's eyes narrow. "Enabler." 

"Me? Fred, come on." 

Freddie swats at the hand that Evie's laid innocently on her chest. "You're enabling them somehow, I know it. Don't put on that act with me."

Evie swallows back her giggle. "No act, I just think they're sweet. They cuddle sometimes." 

Freddie growls, a low rumbling that picks up in her throat and reverberates through Evie's bones. "I'll kill her." 

"Which one?" Evie offers sweetly. "Because if you're looking to defend Celia's virtue, I think you're a little too late. That ship sailed while they were still living under the same roof." 

"You let them--" 

"I did. We were doing it at their age. We're fine." 

"I wouldn't call us--" Freddie sweeps both hands out in a broad gesture that somehow ecompasses both girls, her blinking eyeball purse, and Evie's glistening white kitchen as a whole. "Fine. I mean, look at this shit.  You have fake fruit on your counter." 

Evie snatches the glossed banana out of her friend's un-tender grip. "I have preserved fruit on my counter, actually. And it's there for a reason. Don't break it." 

Freddie relinquishes the banana, but leans back so she can cross her arms in an appropriately disapproving manner. "Why would I break you banana, princess?" 

"Lots of reasons. Maybe you have a grudge against bananas in general. Maybe you hate mine specifically. Maybe you've got a secret anti-fruit vendetta that you're acting upon one poor, unfortunate fruity soul at a time. Maybe," Evie leans in so they're nearly nose to nose. "You just want something from me, and abusing my fruit is the fastest way to get it." 

Freddie scoffs. 

"Hardly. What I want is to know why the hell you keep preserved fruit on your counter when any kid could come along and break a tooth on it." 

"It's a science experiment." 

Freddie's eyebrows crawl up her face. "Explain."

"Gladly. Everything arrives on the Isle already rotten, right?" 

"Right. Like us." 

Evie can be generous. She ignores this breach of manners, and forges ahead undaunted. "So, we deserve better than that. If we fix what arrives on the Isle, it goes a long way towards keeping things inhabitable, or at least bearable for the kids who are still stuck there while Ben works on the legal grounds to get them out safely.  I started a few experiments in food preservation, oh, maybe a few months ago?" 

"So this banana--" 

"Is four months old. Yes." 

Freddie lowers herself to go eye-to-eye with the preserved fruit bowl. "But it's solid." 

"Yes." 

"So if I peel this open..." 

Ah. No. 

"I didn't say that I've mastered the experiments yet," Evie says, sliding the bowl backwards before Freddie can try anything stupid. "I've succeeded in preserving some fruits, but the tradeoff is that they're currently fully preserved." 

"So?" 

"Inedible." Evie explains. "We preserved them too well. They'll just pass through your body fully undigested." 

"Gross." 

"You don't know gross until you're looking at a stool sample full of undigested orange chunks." Evie says grimly. "We almost called in Fairy Godmother for a case of magical poisoning before we realized that it wasn't organ tissue sloughing off on the way out." 

[oriley42]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: House M.D. Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gregory House/James Wilson Characters: Gregory House, James Wilson (House M.D.) Additional Tags: Phone sex operator AU, hang up to hook up, Booty Calls, First Time, Smut, Fluff, how to tag this..., fanon divergent??, Fic Alternate Ending Series: Part 2 of Nothing New - Phone Sex Operator AU Summary:

What if Wilson asked House-the-phone-sex-operator to come over, before they met at the hospital? What if House went? An alternate version/accompaniment to “buy some time, it’s on my dime.”

[tj-dragonblade]

#14 for the spotify wrapped game!!!!!!!!

14 - The Islander by Nightwish

This is a longtime favorite song, but I've never necessarily thought about it for fic. So I pondered a bit, and pondered some more, and got an idea, and then it ran away with me. Oops.

Sea without a shore for the banished one unheard He lightens the beacon, light at the end of world Showing the way, lighting hope in their hearts The ones on their travels homeward from afar

On an island at the end of the Space Between Worlds, there sits a lighthouse. Many are the doorways on this island, many are the worlds which can be reached from this twilight convergence, and the lighthouse stands steadfast in their midst, shrouded in perpetual night. The landscape shifts endlessly, never the same for any two travelers, and the lighthouse guides each to the doorway that they seek.

The Lighthouse Keeper is old, and young, and ageless; he is male and female and neither, human and inhuman both, everything and nothing at once. He would appear different to every person who looks upon him, but none ever do and he gives it no thought.

The Lighthouse Keeper is a solitary being, devoted to his duty; he keeps the light burning, keeps travelers on their intended paths. This is his purpose. This is why he exists. Travelers are barely aware that the lighthouse is there, and that is as it should be. Travelers do not enter the lighthouse.

Until, one day, someone does.

"Well met, Stranger!" the Traveler calls, hand raised in greeting, and the Lighthouse Keeper can only stare.

"You should not be here," is what he says at last.

"I'm sorry for intruding, then," the Traveler replies, "only I pass by your lighthouse time and time again, and I had wished to give you my thanks for your steadfast guidance! I'll be on my way!"

"No one enters the lighthouse," is what the Keeper says next, for he still cannot fathom this anomaly.

"Oh, well. Perhaps I'll pop in to say hello again next time I pass," the Traveler says then, and the words are steeped in something which might be pity or might be curiosity, and the Keeper watches the Traveler depart and wonders at the oddity of the meeting.

It vexes him, this impossibility made possible. Travelers do not perceive the fullness of the lighthouse. It lights their way from beneath their conscious mind, guiding them through the perpetual twilight on the paths they cannot see to the doorway that they need. It should not be possible for a traveler to enter.

And yet.

"Hello, Stranger!" the Traveler calls, some passage of time later. "A pleasure to see you again!"

"I do not understand," says the Keeper, perplexed. "How is it that you are here?"

"I was passing by again," says the Traveler, "and since I told you last time I'd say hello—"

"You should not know of this place," the Keeper interrupts. "It is not possible."

"But you're right here," the Traveler protests, "your lighthouse is right here, every time I pass by. You always help me see which way I need to go."

"None see this place, none know of this place," the Keeper insists.

"Except you, of course," says the Traveler. "And me?"

"And you," the Keeper agrees, his worldview shifting to accept the undeniability of this truth. "Well met, Traveler."

The Traveler visits each time he passes, a mere exchange of greetings at the start, pleasantries that the Lighthouse Keeper at first finds tedious; but more and more they become appreciated as they continue to occur. And when the Traveler begins to share details of his travels, the Keeper finds that he appreciates this as well.

"I am bound for the shores of Toor Naghen," says the Traveler, "to ply my trade as a sailor awhile."

"May the seas bring good fortune to you," the Keeper replies, pouring tea into a pair of small china cups that had appeared in the lighthouse kitchen two visits ago.

"The mountains of Vanaheim call to me," the Traveler confides when next he passes through. "I don't know what awaits me there, but it will surely be worth the journey."

"Most assuredly," the Keeper agrees, and offers a tentative hint of a smile in parting.

"Have you ever seen the first spring blooms in Tír na nÓg?" the Traveler asks at their next meeting, eyes shining. "Only, you seem like a person who appreciates beauty, and I have never seen anything that could compare."

The Keeper shakes his head and gazes across the table, where the soft golden-brown aura of the Traveler brings life to the grey of the lighthouse keep, where the light in his eyes and the warmth of his smile chase the chill from the whole of the empty room.

Yes, he appreciates beauty.

"This is for you," his Traveler announces on his next visit. "The artisans in Shangri-la, they do remarkable work, and…it made me think of you."

It is a piece of dark stone, masterfully hewn to cylindrical smoothness, a brilliant bluish gem fixed in the narrower end so that it does suggest a lighthouse, in its most basic shapes.

"You are kind," the Keeper says, closing his hand around the stone, and his Traveler's smile only grows warmer.

And so the time passes, his Traveler coming and going and growing no older, full of stories and wonders and beautiful things from all manner of worlds that he shares with the Lighthouse Keeper, who grows quietly ever more fond of his visitor.

"Do you never leave this place?" asks his Traveler, when next they meet.

"Who would tend the lighthouse, were I to go?" replies the Keeper, serenely, but the question strikes him deeply. He has been the Lighthouse Keeper since the beginning of everything; he has always been here. He is the lighthouse and the lighthouse is him. This is his duty; this is his function.

But sometimes, he is. So tired.

"Have you no one to share your burden, then?" his Traveler inquires, kindly, "no one to ease your loneliness?"

The Lighthouse Keeper is stung, unduly, by his Traveler's perception, and he bares his teeth to hide the wound. "You dare suggest I have need of companionship?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," his Traveler confirms, with aching sincerity in his voice, and the Keeper is incensed.

"What need have I of company, of one such as you?" he sneers, vicious and cruel. "Begone, and leave me in peace." And he retreats to the top of his tower, where the perpetual moon shines upon him, alone.

His Traveler leaves him be, for a time, and the warmth he had brought to the lighthouse begins to fade. The Keeper laments that loss, laments the creeping chill that had never troubled him in all the long eons of his duty but is now unbearable for having known the warmth he might have in its stead. Still, when his Traveler at long last returns, his pride does not permit that the Keeper bend.

"My friend, please, let me apologize," his Traveler begs, but the Keeper refuses to see him.

"You are unwelcome here," he declares, and tells himself it is satisfaction that he feels when his Traveler departs at last, spirits low.

It is not so long a wait before his Traveler again returns. "My friend," he begs once more, "do not turn me away, let me make amends—"

"You are unwelcome here," the Keeper repeats, refusing to open his door, and weeps in the cold of his empty keep when his Traveler finally retreats.

A third time his Traveler returns, with little of hope in his bearing. He is weary, bedraggled, but his call at the door is resolute. "My friend, I beg of you. Let me make right the offense I have given, please do not turn me away."

The Keeper moves to speak, to tell him once more that he is unwelcome, but his heart stays his tongue. If he speaks it a third time, then it will be true, and…the Keeper is prideful, and unyielding, but…he does not wish for this to be made true. After all. His Traveler has named him Friend, three times now, and so that must be true—and a friend would not be unwelcome, no matter how the Keeper's pride might sting to admit that he had erred, to allow his vulnerabilities to be perceived.

He opens the door.

"My Friend," breathes his Traveler, relief lighting every line of his body, his beautiful face, and the Keeper cannot pretend any longer that his pride matters more than this being of warmth and life and joy.

"I apologize," he offers, before his Traveler can say ought else. "I have treated you poorly, and I would. Make amends. Please. Come in."

His Traveler smiles, and it chases the cold from the Keeper's limbs effortlessly.

"It was callous of me to presume you lonely, and I am sorry for the offense," his Traveler begins as they sit at the kitchen table, as the Keeper pours them tea, and oh how he has missed the warmth of this ritual, the brightness his Traveler brings.

"I took offense because it was true, and it vexed me to be so easily known," he replies. "I am lonely, my friend, and I have missed you fiercely."

"I have missed you, as well," his Traveler declares, eyes shining, and the Keeper's heart is overfull.

"Where do your travels next take you?" he inquires, through the soft smile that will not leave his face.

His Traveler grins, brighter than the sun. "Here, to your door," he declares. "I'll not travel on til you bid me leave. If you'll have me?"

"I will, old friend," the Keeper agrees.

His Traveler leans across the corner of the table between them, and places his big hands gentle and warm on the Keepers face, and kisses him full on the lips. "Then I shall stay," he murmurs.

And, for the first time in the memory of anything, dawn breaks over the lighthouse on the island at the end of the Space Between Worlds.

===

(Hob does leave again eventually; he is the Traveler, not the Stays-in-One-Place-er. But he always spends ample time between journeys at the lighthouse with his Dream. And eventually they find another unique individual who becomes the Apprentice Lighthouse Keeper (hello Daniel) and Dream can join Hob on some of his travels and finally see the worlds he's been guiding people to his entire existence)

Spotify Wrapped Askmeme Post

[peppermintquartz]

WIP idea: stuntman Evan Buckley and movie actor Tommy Kinard AU

(idk how far to go with this, it's more a hint of an idea. popping it here first so i remember when i have time to work out the deets)

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"Alright, Buck, you're up," the stunt coordinator checks Buck over to make sure that he is properly padded where he will be taking the brunt of the hits.

Buck waits for the mattresses to be in place before he jogs over to get to his mark. He's not worried about the stunt at all - it's a simple one, and with his best friend and training partner Eddie behind the wheel, it'll be a piece of cake.

As Buck gets into place, he passes Tommy Kinard, the actor he is doubling for. Kinard nods at him, a small smile of acknowledgement and thanks, then returns his attention to the director.

Buck takes a deep breath. This spy thriller is going to be the death of him.

Not for the stunts - with Bobby Nash coordinating, Buck knows he's in good hands - but because every single moment he sees Kinard, he becomes more and more bothered by the latter's existence.

And the thing is, everyone else loves Kinard. And Kinard's the main on this new movie, which will hopefully start off a new spy franchise. The success of this means consistent work for the crew, which, in the current Hollywood climate, is a dream.

So Buck can't tell anyone about how he feels, not even his best friend Eddie. Especially not Eddie; Kinard and Eddie have hit it off from day two of stunt training, bonding over their shared love of muay thai and MMA. Sometimes, Eddie even prefers to hang out with Kinard over Buck. It's so aggravating.

Thomas fucking Kinard. Him with his chiseled good looks and thick hair and broad shoulders and million-dollar smile that has landed him deals with top brands like Maserati and Tag-Heuer and Louis Vuitton. Buck wants to... Well, he doesn't consider himself a violent person, despite his career choice, but he wants to do something to Kinard.

[serendipitouscontaminant]

Look…there’s something deeply compelling about Gregory being in love with both of his best friends (never at the same time…unless…)

Think about it.

(musings after the cut)

Jacob completely oblivious to Gregory’s feelings because there’s absolutely no reason for him to believe that Gregory would ever like him like that. Sure, maybe he does have feelings for Gregory. So what? It’s never gonna happen. And Gregory likes Janine! Jacob knows he does. And Janine likes Gregory back! Jacob can’t break the bro code like that. (The bro in this case is Janine.)

Gregory unsure how to deal with his awkwardly timed bisexual awakening, which he can’t even consult with his Gay Friend about because his Gay Friend is the reason the bisexual awakening is happening.

Jacob trying to move on and date and have fun. Gregory being supportive through gritted teeth, terrified of shooting his shot after how things went down with Janine, because literally what is less emotionally safe, romance-wise, than making a move on his best guy friend?

Feeling like he can’t confide in Janine because—well, it’s obvious, right? But maybe…maybe he does eventually confide in Janine.

The pining. The denial. The heartbreak. The satisfaction??? There’s things THERE to EXPLORE!!!

Tl;dr Gregory/Jacob

[lacnunga]

Blah blah blah foth timeloop where keith keeps being reset and he's like 'ffs what do I have to do?' He tries saving Lachlan, tries saving Neil, tries keeping Allison in Scotland, tries challenging Guthrie and Greening and even the Duke of Cumberland. He gets shot, drowned, lost and starved in the Highlands. Battered and frustrated and so Tired he even, despite every fibre of his being, tries to help Prince Charlie fulfil the Jacobite cause, because he doesn't know what else he could possibly be meant to do. He is executed for treason. He wakes again with his horse thrashing wildly and the cut on his head stinging. There's nothing left to try; he will spend the rest of his existence dying ignoble deaths and waking up again on that fateful day he first met Ewen Cameron. He had already spent a cycle of his resurrection resigned and apathetic, and Ewen had not looked upon him with those fierce eyes of the man on the Morar beach. Once more, just once more, Keith would play his part in this dread theatre, just to see the same sparks of disbelief, the flaring fire in Ardroy's eyes as they clashed and came together again just to part once more. Round and round until he would bleed out in his arms once more and the pain and the effort would be worth it to see Ewen look at him as a friend. Perhaps this time, just once, he would allow himself a press of his lips and a confession from his heart before he went.

And perhaps, just this once, he would live. Anyway, is this anything?